


Brooklyn

by kissoffools



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brooklyn, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Memory Related, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissoffools/pseuds/kissoffools
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier doesn't remember. He doesn't work without a plan. And, more than anything, he doesn't trust.</p><p>For now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brenda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/gifts).



> Set almost immediately after "Captain America: The Winter Soldier".

After Washington, the Winter Soldier goes to New York.

He’s flying blind here, working purely off the display in the Smithsonian he’d discovered after digging the HYDRA tracking device out of his good arm and stealing some worn clothes from a consignment shop. He doesn’t have a plan.

And that’s disconcerting to him. Because, in the past, he’s always had a plan.

But there’s no one here now to give him a purpose. To give him an objective, a goal, an outcome. He’s flying blind for the first time, and he has to rely on himself. No one else.

_Bucky. Bucky. Bucky._

The name bounces around in his head, neurons firing faster and stronger than they ever have. He’s used to being put to sleep, to having things wiped while he’s put on ice and tucked away until the world needs him again. Being able to remember, to build off ideas and experiences, isn’t something he’s done in a long time. If ever. Which is the whole problem—he doesn’t know what he’s done before. He doesn’t know where he comes from, where he’s been.

Who he is.

But now, he has a name. _James Buchanan Barnes—“Bucky”_ , said the sign in the Smithsonian. _Born: 1917, in Brooklyn, New York. Died: 1944, outside of Prague, Czech Republic._ He’s twenty-seven years old… or was, once upon a time. When he was Bucky.

He still doesn’t know who he is, but it’s a start. And Brooklyn, New York, is the next step.

New York is big and intimidating—so many people, so many more than the Winter Soldier thinks he’s ever seen in one place. Everyone pushing past each other, turning corners, hailing taxis. It’s all a bit of a blur, and ducking down into the subway station doesn’t help. He’s shoved and bumped into, and he holds his left arm close to his chest. He can feel the metal of his hand tightening, forming a fist, and he has to pour all his focus into getting past everyone without turning and knocking them all out. He isn’t used to restraint, but he knows that violence isn’t the answer here. The HYDRA tracker may not be watching his every movement, but the world has cameras. The world has eyes. And he doesn’t want any of them staring at him too closely and figuring him out before he has a chance to figuring things out himself.

The Winter Soldier is down on the subway platform, eyeing the Brooklyn-bound map dubiously, when he hears a voice behind him that sends a sizzle through his brain.

It’s him.

The Winter Soldier tugs his cap down low, hunching over a little to make himself seem smaller. He wants to disappear into the dank platform walls, to keep himself hidden. Because he doesn’t know this man—not for real. This man, this Steve, may know him, but the Winter Soldier doesn’t have those memories. He doesn’t have the bond that the Smithsonian assures visitors they had. And though his face, his voice, his presence may twinge every nerve inside the Winter Soldier, he forces himself not to let his guard down. 

The Winter Soldier trusts no one. 

“This your first ride on the subway?” the man with Steve asks, and Steve shakes his head with a chuckle. His eyes are turned up to the ceiling, examining the steel beams and the dark walls.

“It’s like you think I grew up in the Stone Age.”

“Wait, you’re _not_ two thousand years old?”

Steve jostles him good-naturedly. “This system’s been around longer than you and I combined, Sam.”

“Hey, if that makes you feel better!”

A train screeches into the station, and when Steve and Sam move forward to get on, the Winter Soldier follows. He ducks in through a door almost a full car away and leans against the metal post, head tipped down to avoid being seen. He isn’t sure what he’s doing, or where they’re going, but he wants to follow. He wants to keep an eye on them. He watches the way they lean back in their seats, Steve’s arm slung across the back as they laugh, and he feels a pang in his chest.

He wonders what it’s like to laugh.

When the subway system announces Prospect Park, Steve and Sam rise from their seats. The Winter Soldier follows them off the train at a safe distance, keeping others between them to ensure he isn’t seen. The day is clear and crisp when they get above ground, leaves just starting to change color on the trees, and the Winter Soldier sees Steve inhale deeply from his position twenty feet away. 

“You know, it’s the smells you miss when you’re away from home,” he says.

Sam inhales too, tossing Steve a look. “It smells like skunk.”

“Should’ve smelled it in the thirties,” Steve says. “Smelled like exhaust and desperation.”

“I’m pretty sure only one of those is true,” Sam says, and Steve laughs.

“Come on. We’re not far.”

As they start to move, the Winter Soldier tips his head up, inhaling tentatively. Skunk, just as Sam said. But underneath the sour odor, there's something else. Something comforting. Something familiar.

His insides twisting, the Winter Soldier follows.

The neighborhood isn’t anything he’s seen before, though, and he’s almost certain of that. The lampposts, the houses, the strips of grass and the women pushing baby strollers and walking dogs past him… he doesn’t know this life. It may smell familiar, but it isn’t home. If he’s ever had a home, this can’t have been it.

But then he follows Steve and Sam around a corner, his eyes settle on a small brick apartment building, and he stops in his tracks.

He’s seen this place before.

His stomach churns hard, and every breath seems to take more effort than usual to fill his lungs with air. He runs his eyes over the building, up and down and up again, trying to push his mind backwards. He has a deep, visceral feeling about this building—he knows it, somehow. He’s been here before, countless times. And all he wants is to, for once, be able to actually _remember_ something. He’s sick of feelings, of gut instinct, of intuition. He wants to look at something and _know_. 

He has a past. He can feel it under his skin, trying to claw its way to the surface. It’s there, right on the edge of his memory, itching to burst through. But he can’t get it. He can’t grab it.

The Winter Soldier almost roars in frustration.

“Aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes.” It’s a woman’s voice, approaching them from the front steps of the building, and the Winter Soldier ducks quickly into an alley to avoid being seen. “Made it okay?”

“We’re in one piece,” Steve says, “so I can’t complain.”

The Winter Soldier peers cautiously around the brick wall of the alley, eyeing the people in front of him. It’s the redheaded agent, with her arms around Steve in a hug—the one from the bridge, the one from a handful of other missions in the past. He remembers taking her down, leaving wounds on her to scar, and he flexes his metallic arm as he watches them. She’s dangerous—he’s seen how she operates, how she makes decisions methodically, with only the thought of her objective on her mind. He understands that, but he knows it makes her a threat. A problem.

One he’ll have no choice but to take out if she spots him.

“The apartment’s clear,” she says, tipping her head back to look up at the building, squinting into the sun. “Totally empty. Doesn’t look like anyone’s rented it out in awhile.”

“It wasn’t exactly the nicest place back when I lived there. Can’t imagine it’s in high demand now,” says Steve.

“You think he’s here?” Sam asks, and the Winter Soldier shrinks back a little further into the shadows. 

“I don’t know,” Steve says, his voice a little quieter than before. “But we have to start somewhere.”

“I jimmied the lock,” the redhead tells them. “It’s not exactly the Plaza, but it’ll do for a night or two until we can figure out our next steps. Think you can handle roughing it, soldier?” She flashes Steve a playful grin, and the Winter Soldier presses his lips together. 

He wonders if anyone’s ever looked at him like that.

“Natasha, I spent seventy years on ice,” Steve says, clapping her on the shoulder. “So long as the floor doesn’t turn me into a popsicle, I’ll be happy.”

Sam laughs, and Natasha extends her hand towards the apartment’s stairs. “Then, after you.”

The Winter Soldier watches them climb the wooden steps, eyes studying their backs as they stop on the third floor and let themselves in through the broken front door. They’ll be in the living room, he thinks, with the kitchen on their left and two modest bedrooms in the back. The place isn’t much, but it’s cozy. He thinks he likes it.

He isn't even sure if this apartment counts as a memory. He can picture the home, but he can’t imagine himself inside it. He knows the layout, but as much as he wants to, he has no recollection of walking through every room. It's like he's spent days hunched over a table, poring over blueprints of the place without ever having stepped inside. It’s familiar and foreign all at once, and the thought of it makes him ache a little inside.

Just like when he thinks of Steve.

He shakes his head to clear it, sinking down to the pavement with his back against the brick wall of the alley. The sun’s slowly dipping below the skyline, and fewer people are in the streets. Darkness is falling. 

He wants to probe at his memories some more. Wants to experience more things, investigate, to see if he can force anything to come back to him. But he knows HYDRA has eyes everywhere—that he’s at risk of being discovered, transported, and wiped at any moment. One wrong move, and he could lose everything he’s built. Everything he’s learned. And there’s no way he can risk that.

So night will fall, and the Winter Soldier will wait. Waiting, he knows how to do.

***

The night is dark and overcast when the Winter Soldier slips out of the alley.

There are streetlights dotting the sidewalk, but with the heavy clouds up above and his still surroundings, he doesn't feel as worried about being spotted. It was one thing to travel through the subway, lost in the crush of people, but being out alone normally brings him more of a call for concern. Nightfall helps. 

He sticks close to the sides of buildings, though, and doesn't step out into the open any more than he can possibly help it. His ears are alert, attuned to any small click or tick of metal, just waiting to hear the sound of a rifle being engaged. He may have been HYDRA's best sniper, but he was in no way HYDRA's only. When he's scanned the area and he thinks it's safe, he darts across the street and steps carefully up onto the stairs leading to the familiar apartment.

They're still inside—he can see a faint light coming through one of the windows, and when he crouches beneath it to look, he's careful not to raise anything but his eyes above the sill. But the light is distant—a flashlight down the hall, resting on the floor with its beam turned up to the ceiling. The three of them must be asleep, back in one of the bedrooms. 

The Winter Soldier wonders if the room in the very back is still painted blue.

His heart jolts, thuds as if it's cracking free from a block of ice. It's not free, and it's not beating yet, but it's there. His heart exists, deep down somewhere. He can feel it, for the first time in a long time.

For the first time in a long time, he remembers. He remembers that one of the bedrooms is blue, and he remembers standing in it. He remembers wooden floors and chipped paint, curtains blowing softly in the wind on a summer's day. He remembers, however faintly, and it's good. It's intoxicating, and he wants more. His head spins a little as he eases himself gently to his feet and starts around the side of the apartment. Surely there has to be a way in that doesn't involve the front door.

His head's still swimming as his fingers tuck themselves beneath the kitchen window, slowly forcing it upwards. In the past, he'd be practically laughing—mocking these people, these soldiers who act so experienced and then don't bother to secure their perimeter before laying down for the night. He'd be setting his jaw, ready to catch them off guard and in compromising, life-threatening positions. He'd have their number in seconds, and he'd revel in it. But now, all he can think of is this apartment, this street, and the way everything's prying at his brain, aching to be set free.

"They're asleep, but they're armed. And they're the lightest sleepers I've ever met."

The Winter Soldier freezes, one foot on the windowsill, raising his head almost guiltily. When his eyes meet Steve's, he feels a little nauseous.

"So I'd be careful, if I were you," Steve continues. "We're smarter than you think."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

Steve's eyebrows raise, and there's actually a little bit of a smile on his lips. The Winter Soldier has played through a lot of potential scenarios for the next time he's face to face with Steve, but a smile hasn't even crossed his mind. "Far cry from the last time I saw you. I think I still have some bruises, and I don't bruise easy." Steve takes a step forward—just a small one, but the Winter Soldier sees it. "I wanted to thank you, actually."

"For what?" The Winter Soldier pulls his leg back from the windowsill. He feels better standing on two feet. Just in case.

"For dragging me up onto shore after the crash," Steve says. "I don't think it's very easy for me to die, thanks to the serum, but I'm pretty sure it won't save me from drowning. But you did. So, thank you, Bucky."

The Winter Soldier flinches at the name. He can't help it. He's seen his life laid out for him on a sign in a museum, been to Brooklyn and smelled the air, seen an apartment he used to know... but the name still escapes him. It doesn't feel real. This may very well have been his past, but it isn't who he is now. 

He isn't Bucky. 

"You shouldn't call me that," he says, finally.

"Why not? That's your name."

"It's not," he insists. He gestures towards the apartment, towards the dark sky, frustration pouring out with every word. "This isn't me. I don't know any of this. I might have, once, but it's not who I am now. I'm not him."

Steve takes another step towards him, reaching a hand out for him. "Yes, you are."

"Don't!" he cries, wrenching his arm back before Steve can touch it. "How can you do that? If we were friends, it was ages ago. Decades. I don't know this city, or this world, or _you_." He's having trouble breathing now, little gasps of air fighting through his lungs. The Winter Soldier wants to bring his hands up to his chest, tear at his clothes and get to the flesh underneath. To scrabble at it, to dig into his heart and make it just _stop_. Because it hurts, it really hurts, and he can't remember the last time he felt that. He can't remember it, and he doesn't know what to do.

"But I know you."

The Winter Soldier shakes his head. "How can you?"

"Because I can still remember," Steve says, stepping towards him again. "Bucky, your memories might be gone, but mine aren't. I thought I lost you back there, a million years ago. I thought I lost my whole world—my family, and my troops, and my best gal. But somehow, you're here. I thought I lost you once, and like hell am I going to let it happen again."

When Steve reaches his hand out this time, the Winter Soldier doesn't pull away. He lets Steve's hand rest on his shoulder, lets the warmth burrow under his skin and slide into his veins. He can't remember the last time anyone's ever touched him like this. With kindness.

“You can fight me all you want. Beat me black and blue—I don't care. I remember everything, and I'm going to make sure you remember it all, too," Steve says, his voice strong and sure. Reassuring. "I'm not giving up on you, Buck. That's not what we do. I’m with you to the end of the line.”

The Winter Soldier shivers. It's that sentence—those words Steve said to him on the helicarrier, back in Washington. He _knows_ them. He's heard them before, a hundred times. But he isn't hearing them from Steve anymore—now he can hear those words in his own voice. He can hear them, and he can feel them. He can _see_ them. A funeral. Standing outside this apartment door, a smaller man’s hand on the doorknob, trying to convince him that he doesn’t have to be alone.

When the Winter Soldier lifts his head again to meet Steve's eyes, he sees something in them. There's warmth and understanding, patience and laughter. He sees safety. He sees home.

"I know you," the Winter Soldier says softly. Steve's other hand comes down on his shoulder, too, and he pulls him a little closer.

"Yeah?"

"I don't know most things, now," he says, "but I know you."

Steve tilts his head a little, and the Winter Soldier feels like he's being studied. But it isn't the same menacing, calculating gaze that came so frequently from Pierce—it's warmer. It's caring. It's one friend trying to find another, deep down inside.

"I bet I can help you know most things," Steve says. "If you'll let me."

The Winter Soldier trusts no one. He never has, and he's always sworn that he never will. But maybe… maybe Bucky Barnes does.

"You think?" 

"I think." Steve pulls him in a little closer, tucking him underneath his arm. "Come on. It's late," he says, leading him back around to the apartment's front door. "We'll figure out where we go from here in the morning."

Tucked up under Steve's strong shoulder, trying not to shake with nerves and anticipation, Bucky Barnes follows him inside. And for the first time in a very long time, Bucky Barnes looks forward to tomorrow.

 

_end._

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Brenda, I hope you enjoy! I sincerely apologize for not being able to work Peggy into the story more than I did - I adore her, but this idea ran away with me and working Peggy into a real role felt pretty impossible. I hope that, regardless, this story is along the lines of what you were looking for. :)


End file.
